


Goodness Gracious!

by AspiratingAnxiety



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Batfamly, F/M, Migrated From Tumblr, Multi, My Jaybird, My true fave, Requests, This is just straight love..., Tumblr prmpts and requests that have been relocated, batfam, love y'all, tell no one, those thighs tho
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-09-13 23:53:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16902111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AspiratingAnxiety/pseuds/AspiratingAnxiety
Summary: A collection of all of my short works that are exclusively Jason Todd. I love him. Fucking fight me.





	1. No Way (Imagine Request)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ok i am so so so obsessed with your writing you really have a gift for strong character driven pieces i love it!! can i request the prompt 'i've been in love with you my entire life' (i can't remember which prompt list it was from) with jason todd please? a reader insert fic to clarify haha xoxo  
> -anonymous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is gonna be the shortest one ever, y'all. Ever.

“Jason, darling, I have been in love with you my entire life. You know I’d do anything for you.” You have to reach up to put a gentle hand on his shoulder. Your voice drops from a soft coo to a flat, unimpressed monotone. “But not that.”

He throws his head back with an overly dramatic cry of desperation. “Aw, please baby! It’s the only thing I want for Christmas!”

You move past him into the living room with an unceremonious shove. “Well, sucks for you. I already bought your Christmas present, and I’m not lying to your family the first time I get invited over for a holiday.”

“It won’t be lying to Alfred, and he’s the only one who counts.”

“It will so!”

“It won’t though! Alfred knows who you are, and he knows you’re not a hooker.”

You scoff, offended anew by your boyfriend’s idea of “a good practical joke.” Telling them that you were a 62 year old anthropologist was funny. Claiming to be another alien girlfriend had been a laugh.

Showing up to Christmas dinner in stripper heels and a dress that was nothing more than a few scraps of fabric?

Not a goddamn chance.

“Yeah, well,” you say, flopping onto the couch with a huff. “I’m sure Batman knows too. And your brother Dick. He taught me P. E., by the way. He’s known me almost as long as you have. He was the gymnastics coach at my prep school.”

“Gross…” Jason mumbles, looking incredibly disappointed. Just on the edge of a pout.

“I assure you, it was not.”

“Ugh!” He cringes away from you with an unnecessary amount of disdain, and you relish the petty payback.

Ask you to dress up like a hooker?

Next time you’ll catch him with a right hook, that’s what’s gonna happen. He’ll get a black eye for Christmas…


	2. Get Out of My Kitchen! (Imagine Request)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sometimes i just can’t stop kissing your stupid face with jason todd pls domestic jason owns my whole ass xxxxxx  
> -anonymous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, same baby. Saaaame. I am such a slut for Jason Todd, it’s frankly embarrassing. Especially in domestic/tender/caring situations. I loved writing this piece, even if it is short and sweet. 
> 
> Taglist: @nxttime, @possiblyelven, @sweetspiderboy (just send me an ask or a message if you would like to be added to the taglist, fam.)

 

You can never remember being happier than you are the morning after Jason gets home from a mission away. Your worries and residual anxiety gets worked out fretting over every bruise and nick on the actual date that he arrives home, but the day after?

Perfection.

Even colored by nostalgia, no childhood joy or adolescent thrill can touch the rowdy bubbles of elation that roll and tussle through your chest and belly when the sun peeks through your sheer curtains. Not Christmas, not birthdays, not prom. That first morning waking up with the smell of him on your sheets and the sounds of him throwing together some breakfast down the hall makes you so freakin’ happy that you don’t know if you want to giggle or scream into a pillow.

Sometimes you do both. 

Always though, you slip out of bed and jog up the hall in your PJs. You wrap your arms around him from behind and nuzzle your face into the place between his shoulders. 

“Good morning, gorgeous.” He says this every time, like clockwork.

You return a mumbled, unintelligible greeting into his back. Like a desperate koala, thirsty for his smell and his touch and his warmth, you cling to any part of him that you can as he labors through cooking. Typically, he drags you all around the kitchen like a leggy barnacle for the better part of ten minutes before losing his patience.

“Babe!” he huffs, hauling you around to the front of him and staring down at you with exasperation. He lifts you with a hand on each hip and plops you down a free portion of the counter. “Stay here. I can’t handle you all up in my shit while I’m trying to be nice and make us some food. I’m hungry, and I’m gonna’ end up stepping on you or burn-”

You don’t let him finish, locking your feet together at the small of his back and planting a kiss on his lips. And then another. And one for his chin. Then for the nose and the nasty black eye with bruising stretching all the way down his left cheek. And another for that too, because that bruise looked especially owie. 

One more for good luck….

“Jesus, man.” He puts his hands on your shoulders and forces you back. He gives the tender flesh on the underside of your thigh a playful pinch in an effort to free himself, but you do not relent. “I missed you too, darlin’, but I’m right in the middle of this. That waffle is ruined now, ya’ know.” He points at the bulky kitchen gadget that’s beginning to billow smoke. “It’s gonna’ be the color of a tire, and taste about as good. It takes like 30 seconds of not paying attention to completely waste an entire pot of food! I swear to god I’ve told you this a hundred times…”

“I don’t care about the waffle,” you say as your hands roam lovingly down his back and you smile so wide that your face aches.

He’s somewhere between amused and genuinely offended, but he’s definitely riled up. “I do! I worked damn hard on that waffle. With that attitude, the burned one is yours, by the way.”

You hum, running your eyes from his mane of unkempt dark hair down to his chin and back up. “You’re home, and you’re safe, and I just can’t stop kissing your stupid face!” You press a few more quick pecks anywhere you can get them as he squirms away from you and toward the waffle maker. “I’ll eat the burned waffle for real if you come back over here,” you tempt, every toe still hooked in the waistband of his pants. 

“Get out of my kitchen!” he wails, half laughing and snagging the dishtowel from it’s drying rack and swatting at you. “Before you make me burn everything,  _go!_ ”


	3. Foot in Mouth (Imagine Request)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Omg thank you for opening the prompts and giving lists. If you have the time and inspiration how about from the Prompt sentence list #54 “They’re not your kids, back the fuck off”. Thank you again for taking prompt requests!!!!!  
> -tremsing82

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, because you didn’t specify which character you wanted, I went on ahead and picked Jason. Prepare yourself, this turned into a somewhat cracky, heartwarming fic about Jason putting his foot in his mouth. Reader is in her very early 20s. Not six months out of 19, actually. 
> 
> This request is a winner, man. I had a much wittier and affectionate intro up here before tumblr let me down so hard and lost my draft. Now we’ve got this awkward paragraph…
> 
> Tag List: @nxttime, @possiblyelven, @lovelywally, @thepuckishrogue (If you want to be tagged, let me know by dropping an ask or shooting me a message! For more Batfam, check out my masterlist.)

 

This is it.

Finally the day your retail-ravaged soul, along with your psyche, snaps like one of those piddly rubberbands on cheap produce.

“Goddammit lady,” you snarl, slamming your palms down on the cash wrap with a meaty smack. “This is the seventh time I’ve had to ask you to keep your filthy little goblins away from my merchandise!” 

Embracing the inevitability of unemployment upon the horizon, you carry on. The words coming out of your mouth are spoken in the low, graveled tone most often associated with violent animals or an emissary of Satan. “Has your daughter ever seen a tissue? Or maybe a garbage can? And that is the fourth necklace he’s broken.” You jab a finger at the accused child, prowling around the register. “ _The fourth!_ Your children are terrible.”   

The little boy, probably around four years old, stands stock still with widening eyes and a face going pink with the flush of tears. It’s strange to see him so still after witnessing the boy tear through your store like a methhead on payday. He’s a cute enough kid, even with some tears spilling and the remnants of a PB&J smeared all over his cheeks as well as his marauding fingers. 

Tattered remains of delicate costume jewelry litter the display in front of him, and you don’t even want to think about how much of that child’s sandwich transferred from his grubby lil’ mitts to the stupidly expensive product throughout the store. 

The woman’s daughter (you’re not sure how old, but over six) shrinks from your stormy approach. She dodges away from the denim table where she shoved the wad of stale gum (or the proverbial straw, in this case) you’d seen her spit into her hand moments before (so, hopefully just  _one_ $90 pair of jeans you now have to damage). The girl hides back behind her gaping mother as though you’re brandishing a pistol instead of three years’ worth of rage.

The mother, a comfortably wealthy middle-aged blonde woman, looks to be the very stereotype of pushy, ungrateful, baby-boomed self importance. She is so utterly shocked by your hateful outburst that nary a peep escapes her open mouth.

What?

A salesgirl?

Speaking so rudely even after being treated with nothing but disregard and condescension for two wholehours?

_Outrageous!_

Ha. She’s not half as shocked as your boss is going to be when you throw up a double bird and back flip outta’ this bitch the very moment she wanders in for shift change. 

“Get some control over your spawn, make your selections, and get the hell out of my store.” You go in for the kill while the mother is still silent, absolutely fuming. “And here’s a tip, bitch: If you’re not going to teach your children any manners and you can’t find them a sitter, don’t go shop in a specialty boutique!”  

Your voice goes shrill as your volume ticks up at the last, and so you are brutally unprepared when an incredulous voice of a significantly lower cadence calls you out. 

“Jesus, bitch…” 

You spin on your heel, ready to relish taking a piece out of another customer. Unfortunately, in your anger, you don’t recognize that the additional voice belongs to a guy. 

A big guy. 

A  _huge_ , pissed off guy.

“C’mon, Jason.” You identify the face of a redheaded regular grimacing just behind him. She half-halfheartedly attempts to snag his elbow and pull him away. “Don’t engage. Please, don’t engage?”

“Nah, shuddap Babs!” he spits over his shoulder. His attention returns to you. “Moms need pants too, ya’ know. They’re not your kids; that means not your business, first of all, and not you goddamn problem after they leave the store. So why don’t you just back the fuck off?” 

You are very embarrassed by your reaction to his interference. As suddenly as your anger possessed you, an overwhelming wave of anxiety and stress boils up in your lungs. It claws its way out of your throat and starts pouring from your eyes in a matter of seconds. 

“But it  _is_ my problem!” you sob, tears of frustration streaming down your face. “My associate number gets flagged for  _every_ item I damage. My record is penalized for not taking care of the merchandise when I’m not even technically allowed to ask people to  _stop_   _breaking things_. My commissions bonus is in jeopardy based upon the items I damage, no matter how many sales I make!” 

The man blinks down at you as though you’ve started speaking in tongues. He takes a clumsy step away from you, and the redhead sighs with the sort of perpetual exhaustion known only by elder sisters. You hear the door chime signifying the hasty departure of the blonde mom and her rotten kids.

“Oh, and I’m aware!” you continue. “I’m very aware that mothers need pants, you ass. I  _am_  a mother.” 

If the guy paled when you started crying, he goes absolutely pallid as the pitiful truths of your sad life rush, unbidden, from your tongue. 

“My daughter is 18 months old, and I work in this shitty store for shitty pay so that I have food for her dinner and hot water for her baths. All I do is work! My grandma is raising my kid, and I haven’t bought a pair of jeans for myself since I was in  _high school!_  A full eight hour shift in this hell-mouth of spoiled, snobby, rich bitches dropping over a thousand dollars on  _fucking baubles_ doesn’t even cover one singlepair of jeans from that table! Even as a manager, the employee discount doesn’t make owning a stitch of this clothing feasible.” 

You take a few breaths to gather yourself. The guy’s face is a mask of social horror, and the features of the woman behind him fell into impassivity about the time you brought up sales and damages.

“You know what though,” you say, speaking in a surprisingly perky, conversational tone as you wipe your running nose on your sleeve and the last wavering trills of your bawling work their way out. “When I run errands, Gram Mary watches Rosie. ‘Cuz I know better.”


	4. Happy Birthday Darlin' (Special Request)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy 20th, Sweetheart. 
> 
> Sleepy drabble with an inexperienced 20 year old Jason Todd. ‘Nuff said, right? 
> 
> Super Fluff reader insert fic. 
> 
> Enjoy!

The lamp in the second story window of your home is lit. The buttery glow of the little antique seems to reach out through the dreary October morning and burrow down into his chest. Heat kindles in the tender spot, and he smiles to himself as a swell of joy rushes through him. He’s dizzy with it, tickled to feel that a flush of warmth has made his cold skin prickle all the way from his head to his toes.You left the light on for him. It is an assent to his presence. When you want uninterrupted sleep or space, you switch your lamp off. The two of you settled on this method of indication after your roommates began lodging complaints about the odd hours Jason came knocking. Because he sticks to a relatively nocturnal schedule, early AM visitation is his most common time-frame. So early, actually, that it could still be considered extremely late from the night before.

When the lamp in your window is on, he easily scales the ramshackle siding of the 3-bedroom you share with 5 people and slides in through the unlocked framework. It’s tricky for him to do so quietly this morning. He’s eager, and the chill air is thick with the kind of moisture that doesn’t have the altitude to be rain, nor the commitment to become a proper embankment of dense Gotham fog. He slips twice, and knocks himself a good one in the shoulder against the gutter as he struggles to keep his boots in place on the slick shingles of the overhang beneath your window. He makes it though, stripping off his muddy boots and heavy jacket so as not to trail any mess and mindful not to break the delicate reading light that acts as a literal beacon of consent which allows him such liberties as creeping into your bedroom.

The swollen, fond feeling inside of him redoubles when his eyes fall on you. He is still for a moment, gaze wandering from the nip in your waist up over the soft curve of your hip. He always takes a few seconds to admire you as you sleep. To have the intimate space of your bedroom offered to him, to be so trusted as to be welcomed into such a space while you are unconscious…

Every time, he relishes the opportunity to enjoy the faith and consideration that you extend to him by allowing these ludicrous early visits. 

You always sleep half-curled on your side. Even swathed in a full comforter and an additional plush throw blanket, he can still make out parts of your figure which he admires. As he approaches your bedside, he reaches back into the pocket of his jeans, retrieving the present he’s carried with him all night through patrol. 

You stir before he moves to wake you, and so he forgoes gently climbing into bed. He drops his weight behind you, pulling you back against him. The blankets unravel as he weasels his free hand beneath them to rub up and down your side. He nuzzles his face into your hair and hums a low, wordless greeting while you draw in a few loud, lazy lungfuls of air. 

“Mmph,” you groan, tongue clumsy from sleep. It is a whiny, inarticulate sound, and it takes you a while to gather enough of your mind to form words. “Your hands are cold,” you say, flipping some of the blankets back over him. “So is your nose.”

You thread your fingers through his, dragging his hand up over your chest and tucking it beneath your chin. Doing so effectively tightens his arm around your middle, and you snuggle back toward him with a sweet, drowsy lack of inhibition. Every part of him is cold, you realize. Sort of damp too, at least his hair and his cargo pants. You nestle down against the hand at your throat, worried that he might get sick but too tired to verbally fuss. 

Jason procrastinates until you doze off again, soaking in your easy warmth and affection while his other hand reflexively tightens in a pattern over your gift. He’s got it under your pillow now, having unthinkingly helped pose the both of you into your common shared sleeping arrangement. Nervous energy keeps him from resting as the doubts he’s had all week about his gift selection begin to plague his mind with a keener ferocity, now that the time to actually give it to you is here. 

“Babe,” he whispers just above your ear. “Baby?” He gives you a firm squeeze before beginning to jostle you back and forth between his arm and torso. “Wake up, okay? I’ve got something for you.”

You take another one of your deep breaths, face scrunching into a malcontent contortion. “M’wake,” you mumble, clearly not. 

He gives an airy chuckle, pressing a firm kiss to your temple before hauling the both of you upright. You hiss, fighting to remain within the toasty, comforting blankets. When you’re good and vertical with at least one eye peeped open, Jason maneuvers so as to be directly in front of you. 

“Hey,” he grins, feeling suddenly foolish and a bit shy. You don’t look particularly happy, and he wonders if he should have allowed you to sleep. It’s your day, after all. 

You respond simply, clearly somewhat confused. “Hey?” 

Your voice is tender and soft, having worked through the gravelly portion of misuse and developed into a delicate, almost musical murmur. The sound gives him pause, and he goes back in to press another kiss to your hot, flushed cheek. He stays close for a moment, embracing you with only his nearness and not with his arms. When he leans back down on his haunches, he extends the bundle in his hand. 

“I wanted to be the first to tell you and, ya’ know, the first one to give you a present.” You’re really smiling now, both beautiful eyes wide and sparkling in the warm lambency from the little lamp in the corner. “It’s like… four o’clock in the morning, so I’m pretty sure I get to be the first one who says it.” He grips your chin with the fingertips of one hand, tilting your face up and planting a proper kiss over your lips, heedless of morning breath. “Happy Birthday, Darlin’.”

He says this while your noses are still touching, eye to eye and smiling like the devil on a stormy Sunday morning. You go sheepish looking at him when he makes faces like that, with his eyes so bright and his teeth flashing all white and sharp in just the right places. Demurring, all too aware of the stale heat emanating from your tongue and suddenly quite nervous about something like morning breath, you drop your head and set the crest of your cheek gently against his jaw before moving back.

“Thank you, baby,” you mumble, leaning back against your headboard and plucking at the plain, hearty paper and butcher’s twine he used to wrap your present. “You’re definitely the first one to wish me a happy birthday on my actual birthday, for sure.”

It is a book, as you thought it’d be. This one is a well-worn paperback that looks to be of a scholastic persuasion. It’s cover is creased and torn, baring a wild artistic image that you recognize as an engraving of William Blake. Your head cocks to the side as you gently look the battered work over for a title. It’s on the spine, and you shoot Jason a curious look when you can’t quite make out what it says because of the deterioration and damage done by copious readings. 

“Blake?” you question, wondering what in the world you were supposed to do with this gift.

Jason beams, practically puffing his chest he’s so proud that you recognized the artwork on the cover. “Yeah!” 

“Uh, I don’t know much about Blake,” you confess, turning the book back and forth in your palms. “I mostly know his art and, well, the tiger poem.” 

“Yeah…“ he says, enthusiasm completely wilted. His sentences become halting as the room fills with the combined discomfort and awkward confusion of both you and your boyfriend. “I uh, I was kinda’ hoping you didn’t know much about him. He’s one of my favorites. Of the romantics, anyway. Really more like a proto-romantic. And he’s not like my  _favorite,_ favorite author. Just a good one. Sorta’. He’s weird.” 

Silence grows as you try to process your reaction to the gift. It is very early, mostly the middle of the night, after all. You’re not entirely sure what you think of it. You are grateful though, grateful that he thought of you and that he was so excited to wish you a happy birthday. 

You catch his eye, and hug the book to your chest with a small smile. “Thank you,” you say, leaning forward a bit and deepening your expression so as to properly communicate your gratitude.

He nods, still obviously disappointed and perturbed. Just as you are about to reach forward to offer him a comforting touch, he extends his hand and gestures for the book. With only a bit of hesitation, you relinquish it back to him.

“This uh, this was the first book that Alfred bought for me after I moved into the manner.”

“Oh!” you say, his context suddenly tripling your interest in the paperback.

Jason rarely spoke about his past. You knew a rough outline of everything that had gone on, but certainly no details. 

He doesn’t look up at you, cracking the book open and petting some of the pages with the gentlest brush of his fingertips. “Yeah. Alfred and sometimes, well actually, pretty often Bruce too… they’d read me poems from this book. I made them read it over and over again. Always a poem from  _The Songs of Innocence_  and then they’d flip all the way back to the back and find the corresponding work to the first poem in  _The Songs of Experience_. I hated it when they didn’t read one right after the other, even though the collections were published separately. I felt like they were skipping a chapter or something if the poems weren’t read together.”

You don’t know if it’s the somewhat stunned expression on your face or the silence that presses him to explain, but you are enchanted as he continues on.

“Like ‘The Tyger’ for example, it has a companion poem called ‘The Lamb.’ They were written to contextualize one another and question… well God, basically. Intelligent design. ‘The Lamb’ focuses on purity, childhood innocence, and guileless trust in the watchful design of God. ‘The Tyger’ though, the one from  _The Songs of Experience_ , it details the hitches and complications in believing that the  _same_  God from ‘The Lamb’ would create such good, delicate,  _innocent_ creatures and then force them to live in the same world as monsters and fear and man-eaters.” 

“Wow.” You give the book another sly glance as it rests in his hands, feeling that you perhaps underestimated the contents and, certainly, that you underestimated the emotional connection Jason has to it. 

He chuckles again, humorlessly this time, still not looking at you. “Yeah. I stole it out of Bruce’s penthouse over a year ago. He um- he had a bunch of stuff from when I was a kid moved there after… what happened.”

You didn’t think it was possible, but your eyes find a way to go even wider. Jason never,  _never_ talks to you about that.

Never.

You learned about it from Tim. And the newspaper, of course.

Jason wants to shove the book down his throat. This is the first birthday in your relationship, and he ruined it with a dumb gift because he’s a dumb idiot. When he saw your face, looking down at the stupid freaking poetry book with zero surprise or delight, it’s like he started word vomiting. He can’t get it to quit, and he can’t look at you while this comes out of his mouth. 

“I thought he moved it there to, I dunno’, forget about me? Keep me off of his mind. Dick told me though,” Jason pauses to take a deep breath, obviously getting overwhelmed. “He told me a while after I broke in and saw so much of my stuff in there that Bruce had uh- he’d gotten  _real_  mean after. That he couldn’t be around anyone. Not even Alfred. He moved out of the manor withmy things, and he kept them at the penthouse to visit them or something, I guess? It was a weird explanation. This is all weird. I’m so sorry. I should have gotten you a newer copy or maybe just-”

“No!” You lurch forward, snatching the book out of his hand and wrapping your arms around him. “No,” you say more calmly, touched beyond belief that he would give you what amounted to a piece of himselfas a gift. 

“I love it. It’s perfect, and I love it.” 

He puts his weight behind the hug, folding around you and squeezing so firmly that your breath is short. “I love you,” he grumbles into your hair, still unhappy with himself for derailing this gesture so thoroughly. 

“I love you too,” you say, tapping at his elbow as a request for him to lighten his hold. He does, and you lean back with an infectious, dazzling smile. You hold the book up, eager and no longer self-conscious or sleepy. “Will you read me some of the poems?”

“Uh,” his face goes bright red, the blush running all the way to the tips of his ears. “I don’t really know how well I can read aloud, babe. But, I mean, it’s your birthday. If you want to pick a few, I’ll give it a try.”

With a giddy nod, you flip open the book to find an inscription in red ink on the title page: 

 

_Happy 20th Birthday, my Sunny Girl!_

_This book is full of one man’s ideas about life, beauty, and the things that he thought were worth protecting._

_None of them are half as beautiful or worthy as you._

_Love, J._


	5. Dad's Here (Special Request)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is my very first request ever! Yay! Thank you so much @fanboy4eternity Basically looking at Jason’s finding comfort in working with Bruce.

 

-Dangerous endeavors around Gotham are basically an old hat for Jason at this point, right? We can all agree?

-Doesn’t matter. He’d never admit it, but with jobs, every time is like the first time.

  * Coursing adrenaline
  * Shaking hands
  * Sensory overload
  * Unsafe levels of high alert
  * Fear



-He knows the skills are there to back him up. His aim is true, and he’s not a twelve year old anymore. For the most part, the targets are going to have a helluva time trying to throw him around without some serious beating being passed their way.

-All the same, it’s good to hear Bruce’s voice on the com. It’s comforting. Bruce speaks low into the communicator pre-mobilization in the same voice he uses to read stories and hum.

-Jason wonders if he does it on purpose to soothe all of the robins through the pre-pounce shakes, or if it’s something he does for him.

-Maybe it’s not even on purpose?

-He hopes Bruce doesn’t know about the job anxiety. It’s just a part of things. He doesn’t want to be coddled for it, but damn.

\- It is good to work with the old man on the occasion if for nothing more than a moment’s peace before engaging the enemy.

-It is a simple reaction, he supposes. No shame in it. Most people feel better when they know their Dad is around to handle the big shit, and they get to drop some responsibility to become a simple cog in the works headed toward efficient success.


	6. Slim Pickins' (Imagine Request)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bb can i make a request please? can i get 'My very feeling is controlled by the look on your face. I can’t breathe without you. I can’t sleep without you.” “That’s not healthy at all." with the loml jason todd please? all i'm asking is for a happy ending haha but i'm sure you'll write something incredible x  
> -anonymous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been waiting, edited and ready to post, for literally a month in my drafts. What the fuck are you doing, Bethany? Get your life together.
> 
> Tag List: @nxttime, @possiblyelven, @thepuckishrogue, and @jinkies-its-a-writer

 

Volunteering for the dingy, run down community theater in your teeny, backwater town was bad, but not as bad as actually fighting to land a role in one of the cheap, soap opera inspired productions.

“My very feeling is controlled by the look on your face,” you recite the cheesy lines with enough grace and poise to render them only a bit cringe worthy. “I can’t breathe without you. I can’t sleep without you.”

Your friend is lounging across your sofa with his face largely hidden by a battered copy of the script you’d scoured over for weeks. He hadn’t worn his helmet on the ride out to your farmhouse, refusing to miss the opportunity for some quality fresh air north of the city. Because of this, his mop of dark hair is wild. It licks up in all directions, an unkempt mane peeking over the dense collection of pages along with two green eyes and a bright, ornery stare.

You poured your tender heart into this project. After years of being a good little stagehand and supporting cast after cast of rich drama majors slumming it in the boonies for extra credit or a colorful story to tell back at the well-funded Gotham University Theater, you were ready for a taste of the spotlight.

Between keeping up with your part time job at the feed store and tending the farm all by yourself, now that Nan was gone, you didn’t have a lot of spare time. Trips into the big city had been cut from your itinerary in spite of the larger haul your produce and fresh honey brought in at the bigger, busier farmer’s market held every Thursday morning in Gotham’s famous park.

Boy, did  _you_  get a shock when the leather-wearing, motorcycle-driving, cigarette-smoking beefcake who bought you out of shallots and heirloom tomatoes called you up and asked to purchase directly from the lot, in the event that you actually had given up your stall at the market.

Ever since, every week or so, Jason made the journey up scenic old highways to Sunshine Acreage so that he could stock up on seasonal fruits, vegetables, farm fresh eggs, and the occasional hunk of butchered chicken, pig, or cow stashed out in the deep freeze.

At first, you just made conversation and thanked your lucky stars for the steady drops of cash.

Now?

Now you know everything there is to know about each other. Every dark secret. Every favorite food and drink. Every guilty pleasure pop song or sitcom.

Hell, Jason keeps a spare cache of C4 and assault weapons up in the hayloft of the big yellow barn out back.

You don’t keep enough animals to use it much anyhow; the only big livestock around being your milker Bluebelle and a handful of steers being raised with a future involving the words “medium rare.”

So, when Jason asks permission, you give him the okay.

Really, your whole friendship consists of that scenario. Whatever it is that Jason wants or needs, he just calls you up and requests it. Nine times out of ten, you offer it up with halfhearted salty acquiescence or a sassy remark.

This time though, running lines for this play, you ask for some of his help. A sliver of patience and generosity with no judgement or expectations.

Ha.

“Oh, goodness,” Jason says, still hiding behind the script as he improvises a wisecrack in airy tones of false concern. “That’s not healthy at all, you know. May wanna’ look into consulting a physician or mental health professional.”

A petulant whine swells in your throat as a betrayed pout spreads over your face. This is the fourth scene Jason has completely broken, and you’re so done with his smug, selfish ass.

A little help and support! That’s all you asked for, dammit!

Instead of flouncing and demanding,  _again_ , that he take this seriously because it’s seriously important to you, you swipe a zucchini off of the counter in front of you and chuck it at his face.

“Hey!” he yelps, half-laughing as he moves to block the summer vegetable with the paper in his hands.

His grin is as wide as the Devil’s, and you arm yourself with another gourd as you feel an answering smile unfurling your childish frown.

“You’d know all about needing mental help, huh Jay?” You snark, rearing back to throw the softer yellow squash over your kitchen island with enough force to crack it open against his shoulder.

“I would!” he asserts proudly, rolling off of the couch with practiced finesse in order to dodge the organic projectile.

He underestimates the proximity of your coffee table, miraculously managing to hit both his head and his funny bone on the unforgiving walnut frame. He swears, landing hard on the carpet with a deep  _ooof! a_ nd further gratuitous profanity.

You don’t bother to contain your sniggering, too wise to approach and offer either sympathy or attempt to reclaim your script.

Serves him right.

Teasing you for your hobby and slim pickings…


	7. Helpful (Imagine Request)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And if I may make another request, anything with Jason taking care of the reader when she's sick from a recurring illness/chronic illness flare up.  
> -possiblyelven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am pulling from a dear friend’s chronic condition here, as a specific condition/illness was not requested. If you are unfamiliar with fibromyalgia, it is a nerve condition that involves pain receptors communicating constant pain in the muscles and soft tissue all over the body. Inflammation, migraines, nausea, clouded thoughts, dizziness, and all sorts of other nasty symptoms are linked to those who suffer with this condition.
> 
> It is, as of now, incurable. There are methods of treatment. More often than not, however, people afflicted with Fibro just have to suffer through.

  “It’s usually not so bad,” you say, head down with your chin to your chest in what you can only imagine to be an  _incredibly_ flattering angle.

You have to hide your eyes from the sun streaming though the windows, and you can’t curl your back. Your spine echos the throbbing in your head. Sporadic, painful waves that run all the way to your fingers and toes. A world of unique pain explodes when the swells of your migraine mingle with what you know to be Fibro pain in your limbs. The swollen knot on the inside of your left bicep is indicative of your flare up, and you suppress the desire to pop it back into place like a button. 

It does not feel like a button when you poke a pocket on nerves during a flare up.

From experience, you know that it  _does_ feel like a hot poker searing through your flesh.

You’re dead still, and doing your best to breathe normally when what you’d like to do is flop limply on the floor and heave for the pain. 

“I’m so sorry,” you repeat. “It’s really not this bad most of the time.”

“You don’t need to be sorry,” Jason reaches for you. 

You can feel the heat of his hand getting nearer. You tense, a preemptive grimace taking over your features as you prepare for the burst of agony sure to follow his touch.

He stops short of your shoulder, likely because he’s identified the involuntary expression on your face. 

His arm falls against the couch. “It’s not your fault.” 

“M’sorry.”  

Your words have grown so very faint, and it’s taking a lot more to keep from crying. The embarrassment of his timing is as upsetting as the intensity of the flare up itself.  

He sighs in response to your continued apologies, and you hear him get up to rummage around the room. He returns to the sofa, sitting carefully on the opposite side with his weight stabilized by the sturdy arm of the strategic location. The pages of a book rustle together, and you wonder if Jason’s finished the latest novel you picked up for him at the bookstore around the corner.

“Sound sensitivity too?” he asks, voice low and calming.

“Hm-mm,” you offer a negative. It’s the light that’s getting you. Light and touch. 

“You care if I read some of that book you got me aloud? You’ve read it before, right?”

You affirm, and some of the tension that had ratcheted into your brow when he reached for you eases.

“Kay, babe.” You hear the smile in his voice. He’s always so happy to find some way to help. “I’ll read soft, and you just tell me if you need quiet.”  

He begins promptly. He’s only about 50 pages into the story. Things are just starting to get good, and you devote all of your mind to compartmentalizing your pain and enjoying the narrative being read in the rhythmic, soothing cadence of your darling boyfriend.

You love it when Jason reads. Especially when he reads your favorite books. His pacing is flawless, his vocabulary is eloquent, and even when he stumbles he sounds practiced. 


	8. You're Not Kidding (Imagine Request)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yay, requests are open! I had a hard time picking b/c those were some good ass prompts, but... "Person A lifting Person B up to reach the second floor railing from the first floor after someone tossed their stuff up there" with Jason, if you would, my dear. Doesn't necessarily have to be high school related, I'm not picky lol. Thanks in advance! <3  
> -thepuckishrogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am all too happy to fill this prompt for you! Thank you so much for the opportunity. You are a wonderful friend and such an encouraging presence in my life. I love you dearly, and I just want you to know that I appreciate you. 
> 
> Tag List: @nxttime, @possiblyelven, @thepuckishrogue, @jinkies-its-a-writer (If you want to be tagged, let me know! For more fics, check out my masterlist.)
> 
> Also gonna say here that my requests are open again for a limited time! I’ve hit 500 followers (fucking wow!), and I’m including NSFW works for this round of requests. Go to my blog and request some more things from me!

When Jason says there aren’t any good footholds up to your backpack, you assume that’s the end of it. Your friend’s big brother had followed you into the stairwell, tried to help, couldn’t, and now it’s time to report your own idiot brother to the office. School’s been out for less than an hour. Surely one staff member is still around to unlock a door up to the second story.

Jason, however, comes to a different conclusion. 

You are a step and a half lower when the mountain of human at your back snags you by the armpits and unceremoniously hefts you up onto one of his shoulders. Like any normal person lifted more than five feet with no warning, you shriek. Limbs flailing in all directions as you’re benched on the juncture of his arm, you ache where his hands clutched your squirming torso.     

“Jesus, kid,” a wry Jason says as you struggle. It’s only when your knee knocks into his cheek that all amusement leaves his tone. “Oi! Watch it.” 

You yelp, ignoring the young man you’d mistaken for a friend while frantically scrabbling for the railing. “Don’t drop me! Don’t drop me! What is  _wrong_ with you?”

“Are you kidding me?” he growls, exasperated when your leg tags his face for a second time. 

Jason slaps a firm grip on your knee, using his own knuckles as a poor shield for the cheek suffering your unintentional battering. One arm barred over the band where your thighs become your hips like a vice, Jason knows that you’re locked against his shoulder just fine. If you’d stop thrashing, you’d realize it too.

“Grab your shit and let’s get out of here,” he says, unable to see how close you are to the prize as your torso blocks his view. “Tim’s probably been waiting for us at the car.” 

You wail petulantly, eyes clamped shut. Heights terrify you. Just lingering five steps up made you feel like you were navigating a complicated mass of even little cliffs. You stared at your feet when you took the stairs every Tuesday and Thursday, and you’d shown up two hours early at the beginning of the year so that you could make your schedule with as many classes on the first floor as possible.

Out of nowhere, Tim’s voice asks, “Tim’s where?” 

He’s up above you, leaning over the second floor railing and flashing Jason a smug grin that quickly wilts as he takes in the scene below him.

Jason huffs. His tone is flat as a platter. “Are you fucking kidding me?” 

Some rational part of you notes that Tim is on the second floor. This is a good thing. He can rescue your book-bag, and his giant brother can put you back on the ground. Instead of asking for any of these actions to take place, you squeeze your eyes closed again and cry, “Help!”

“She’s afraid of heights, Jason,” Tim explains. You’re not entirely sure what transpires, but the words come from beside Jason in the stairwell. Your curiosity gets the better of you, and you peep the nearest eye open to see that Tim has hopped down next to his brother with your backpack in hand. “Please put my friend down.”

“Please!” you echo, paradoxically clinging onto the railing up above all the more fiercely. Your stomach feels like it’s puckered into a sour, shriveled prune and is trying to creep up your throat. 

Jason mumbles something unintelligible, washed in a quick flash of guilt. It’s like he’s gone and put a kitten up a tree, and now there’s no way to slide her down without grossly adjusting her uniform in an inappropriate way. He assesses the situation for another solution. He doesn’t find one.

The older brother goes contrite where he had been irritated. “I uh- I maybe didn’t think this one through, Timbo.” 

A panicked sound escapes past your wandering stomach as it dawns on you that you’re in less than capable hands.

Tim walks away, having foreseen the embarrassing turn this scenario was likely to take. “You’re not kidding, Jason,” he calls back over his shoulder with a bark of incredulous laughter. 

“Welp, sorry, sweetheart.” Jason accepts the inevitable and moves his hands to either of your hips. When your weight is balanced in his palms instead of on his shoulder, he instructs you. “You’ve got to let go when I tell you to, okay?”

Whimpering an assent, you loosen your grip and do your best to disassociate from the entire debacle. No amount of effort, however, keeps you from noticing the trill that shoots up your spine to feel the way he’s holding you.

The closest you’ve ever been to a dude is sitting next to Tim, and that doesn’t count anymore than being on a couch with your brother. Your sweet lil’ mind simply cannot process that there’s an undeniably handsome twenty-something in a leather jacket with his hands  _literally_ up your skirt. 

Considering it too closely kinda’ makes you want to die a little bit. Or maybe burst into song?

Today too, of all days, you hadn’t hiked on a pair of tights to go under your uniform.  

When Jason’s got one foot planted on the higher stair behind him, he gives the signal. “Now!” he says, working quickly to direct your fall. 

You drop, forcing yourself to focus on the sensation of strong hands running down your thighs and locking in the crooks behind your knees. Your back slams against his broad chest, and it’s hard to breathe with your belly folded so tightly. Your knees are parallel with your shoulders, and you don’t even want to think about the humiliating way that your legs are splayed. 

“Down!” you demand. “Put me down, now.”

“Right.” Jason lowers himself closer to the ground and drops your legs one at a time to be sure of your footing. “Again, that was my bad.”

Your face turns a radioactive shade of red as of yet undiscovered in the color spectrum. You say nothing as you straighten your clothes. You continue to say nothing for the entire ride home, Tim sniggering in the front seat of Jason’s stupidly expensive muscle car. In fact, you don’t say a single word to Timothy’s brother until your graduation a year and a half later. 

From that afternoon onward, you choose to take the bus back to your place and stop bumming rides from Tim or any of his family members. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to find a way to gift just this one chapter to TheViperQueen on here. Am I just not smart enough @ .@ 
> 
> Regardless, I hope you like it, darlin'!


	9. Birthentine's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> @rock-x-kpop-fangirl:
> 
> Hey 💜🖤, first of all, I hope you are having a good day/night :) Secondly, could I please make a request for a fic/imagine with Jason Todd where the reader (his ‘partner’ in vigilantism and life 😂) dislikes Valentine’s Day because it’s also her birthday and she’s always found that awkward. Plus she claims to hate all the cliche lovey things because she tries to be dark but in reality has a soft spot for some things? I am so sorry if this is weirdly explained, I wasn’t really sure how to put it into words 😂😬 Thanks anyway 💜🖤❤️

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  I got this fic done the night before so that I could be sure to get it up for you this Valentine’s!!! Have a good one, babe. I hope that this fic makes you feel the love.
> 
> Tag List:  @possiblyelven, @thepuckishrogue, @jinkies-its-a-writer, @queeniepearls (If you want to be tagged, let me know! For more fics, check out my masterlist.) 

 

“I don’t like this,” you mumble again, squeezing your eyes shut too tightly in an effort to ignore the sticky sensation of Jason’s sweaty palms on your face.

He chuffs behind you, eager like a schoolboy and unperturbed by your repetitive negative comments. “You said the same thing last year, and we had a great time.”

“No,” you correct him. “ _You_  had a great time. I had an allergic reaction to the dehydrated strawberry powder that some asshole decided to sneak into hot cocoa mix.”

“Oh, right. I forgot that happened.”

“Yup, the same way you forgot that I was allergic to strawberries.”

Jason shrugs in response to your petulance. He directs you out of the elevator and down the familiar hall of your apartment complex with his hands still covering your eyes.

“Don’t be dramatic,” he says. “You get some itchy hives; it’s not like your throat closes up or anything. Also, I will remind you for the millionth time that I didn’t know the hot cocoa was actually chocolate-covered-strawberry cocoa. It wasn’t written anywhere on the packaging. I picked that basket for the flowers, not the other junk that came with them.”

You scoff, unsoothed. Not being one for overt gestures of affection, the contrariety of falling for someone like Jay isn’t lost on you. Jason Peter Todd remains the sappiest grown man you’ve ever met, even after years of being brutally teased by both Roy and yourself. Managing to tread water as the sole target of all his intense romantic focus is a wonder. That your sweet boyfriend never lets your mopey cynicism thwart his elaborate conglomeration of birthday and Valentine’s plans is nothing short of an incomprehensible act of God.

Back before you were dating he’d bypass all of the lovey-dovey pink shit and make sure February 14th was about nothing more than you racking up another year. It was nice to have a buddy willing to ditch girlfriends and ignore the pleas of other single friends not wanting to slog through an awkward evening of mockery and embarrassment alone. The memories of those previous birthdays are treasured far above any of the attempts Jason’s made to mix the two celebrations thus far.  

You genuinely appreciate Jason’s dedication to making your birthday special without overlooking the couples’ holiday of the year. However, you just aren’t in the mood to welcome any of his efforts this evening. The best shots he gets at sweeping you off your feet fall on anniversaries or during unexpected moments of spontaneity, not in observance of poorly-timed cesareans and crappy Hallmark holidays. Jason knows these to be your preferences, even if he doesn’t know your food allergies.

Your sense of dread deepens as the door to your apartment gets unlocked. Jason pushes you into the warm interior, and you half expect a repeat of the surprise birthday party he’d thrown for you almost five years before. When no one vaults from behind your furniture shouting, you take in the smells around you. No baking smell or tacos. Homemade dinner of champions had been a part of your birthday requests last year.

Upon reflection, last year was a pretty great time. Strawberry debacle aside. Not that you’re willing to admit that to your boyfriend until he recognizes the danger of feeding you anything to do with those dastardly little fruits that are so popular this time of year.

Your jitters get the better of you, and you stop trying to guess. “Jason, lemme’ see.”

“You sure?” he teases, setting his chin on your head and weaseling up close behind you.

An impatient huff escapes your throat as you go about tugging his hands off of your face. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust, having been covered for quite some time. The scene that greets you melts your heart along with your reservations about celebrating Valentine’s Day. Your couch is covered in a brand new plush throw blanket. Though it is pink, it looks soft enough to be worth the eyesore. Snacks are piled on the coffee table, a wide selection of everything from luxury chocolates to your favorite flavor of potato chip. The TV is paused over the opening titles of the Netflix original you’ve been trying to make Jason binge with you for nearly six months.

You are so touched trying to take it all in that you almost miss what Jason’s saying: “-so I figured, why not both? You told me that time we watched a ton of stupid 90s movies and ate garbage was your favorite birthday.”

“All of the snacks and colors are from Valentine’s day,” you observe, tilting your head back into Jason’s chest.

“Well, accept your cake. And the chips and popcorn. And those nasty frozen pizza things you like.”

“You got me the bagel pizzas?” Your eyes practically have stars in them at this point. This revelation, by far, is the most heartwarming part of the night. Jason loathes the quick frozen foods you’d been living off of before the two of you moved in together and he took initiative in the kitchen.  

Jason grumbles, pretending to be put upon where he’s victorious. “Yeah, I got you your damn gross bagel pizzas.”

“And you baked them in the oven?”

He speaks as though resigned to the childish back and forth, but he loves it. You know he does. “And I baked them in the oven.”

You swoon theatrically while Jason pouts in a good-natured fashion. He catches your weight easily, scooping you up and plopping you on the couch on top of a mountain of heart-related plush items and a bag of those chalky heart candies with corny sayings that nobody likes, but everyone remembers eating.  

You beam at him and snuggle close when he settles in beside you.

This is perfect. Low-key, just the two of you at home, good-bad food, and an awesome show.

How could you have ever doubted him? Jason Peter Todd is a genius, and he’s the best boyfriend with whom you could spend Birthentine’s Day.


	10. Simple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i totally agree with another anon who thinks jason is v inexperienced at romance stuff - so can i request nervous cutie 19/20 year old jason confessing his feelings to his first ever girlfriend? i think that would be adorable and you'd do it justice  
> -anonymous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love baby Jason. I’m not even shy about it. Sweet little heart all in his hands with Much Confusion about pursuing relationships because he’s been spending all his time pursuing vengeance. Ugh. Thank you for this request, Anon. Thank you. 
> 
> Tag List: @nxttime, @possiblyelven , @thepuckishrogue , @jinkies-its-a-writer , @queeniepearls (If you want to be tagged, let me know! For more fics, check out my masterlist.) 

 

Today is the day. He’s going to do it. It’s simple. It’s going to be simple. Even if you don’t want him, your friendship can still be salvaged. People don’t hate hearing that they’re attractive and funny, and smart, and… kind. 

So kind.

That’s maybe the only thing that’s kept him from just outright asking you any of the times you’ve been together in the last week. The chance that you’d agree to be with him only because you don’t want to hurt him. Like, what if you just fake it along, hoping that he’ll move on or you’ll find somebody new yourself? What were the odds that you’d say okay because you enjoy hanging out and there’s nobody better around? 

Is it worth it? Would he want you to just say yes, even if it’s because you’re only being nice or passing the time?

Jason doesn’t want to think about it. Being the friend you agree to take on a pity date isn’t the top worry here. There are  _mountains_ of real complications to consider if you do share an interest in being together. Namely, that he’s just skated off charges of multiple homicides and continues to commit acts of extreme violence against people on a near nightly basis. 

He thinks you kind of already know, though. Maybe not everything, but more than you’ve let on. Jason stops his train of thought and pulls in a deep breath. His mind is running away from him.

This is supposed to be simple. This is supposed to be normal. 

You are the  _one_ normal thing he has in life. 

A polite series of knocks sound at the door to his civilian apartment. You have a key, and so he knows that you’re not knocking for entry. You just like to give him a heads up before letting yourself in. 

Know better than to startle him, that’s for sure.

“I brought the stuff for puppy chow, Jay!” you titter excitedly as you breeze through his front door. You’re having a movie night, and you’ve made it all the way uptown to his apartment wearing nothing more than a sweatshirt and some pajamas.   
  
Honestly. How could anybody not love you? You rode the subway in Gotham City wearing fluffy bunny pajamas! 

God, he really just doesn’t even have a chance, does he? 

“Fantastic!” he calls in response, bolstering his false sense of cheer with the genuine happiness he feels seeing you. His nerves are still dancing, but he won’t ruin his shot before he takes it. “First though, what the hell is puppy chow? I assume it’s not actual dog food.”

You chuckle, hustling into his kitchen. The canvas bag over your shoulder reveals chocolate chips, peanut butter, powdered sugar, and some Chex. “Of course not. I told you all about it over the phone on Tuesday when I was asking you what I should bring. Do you remember the phone call on Tuesday? I mean,” you pause, momentarily halting your efforts to reach up on tiptoe and snag a large mixing bowl from the cupboard. “To be fair, you’ve been pretty out of it this week.”

“Oh?” Jason feels a trickle of nervous sweat creep from his armpit down his ribs when he lifts an arm to scratch at the back of his head. He’s wandered into the kitchen after you, taking up a post with one hip propped against the sink as he watches you work. “Whaddya mean?”

You turn to face him with an incredulous expression. The spoon just used to scoop a generous dollop of peanut butter into the bowl hangs from your mouth so that the remaining product doesn’t go to waste. Your next action is done without thought, and he knows this. That’s why it feels so wrong to watch with avid fascination as you pull the spoon from your mouth, dragging your lips over it and sucking the utensil clean. 

He watches anyway, and he sweats with more intensity. 

“Jason, are you okay? Did you get hit in the head again like you were on Christmas? I feel like maybe you’re concussed and pretending not to be… again.” 

You seem nervous too now, big sweet eyes all crinkled up in a concerned wince. He shrugs, shaking his head and desperately racking his brain for the words he’d practiced. He shifts his weight awkwardly on his feet. Patiently, you continue to stare at him with that same damn look on your sweet pretty face.

A dam breaks somewhere in his mind. All of the agonizing anxiety escapes from his mouth with the torrent of clumsy sentiments he’s been misarticulating all week: “I want to be your boyfriend.”

Understandably, you balk. “What?” 

“To be with you, I mean. Or- uh, what I meant to say was that you’re  _so_ great, and I was just wondering if maybe you thought, or felt like… or something like that?”

The spoon clatters on the counter. You scramble to keep from letting it fall to the floor, looking shocked more than concerned now. Certainly, though, you don’t look happy.

God. He’s such an idiot. He ruins everything. 

How did he butcher this so badly? 

“What are you asking me?” you say softly, as though you’re afraid of his answer. 

“Nothing, forget it.” Jason knocks his fist into his forehead a few times. “Please forget I said any of that.” 

“You’re not being fair, Jason.” You sound like you’re crying, and a whole new wave of confusion hits him.

“Excuse me?” he asks. “What does that mean?” 

Your hand presses into your belly, a tell for just how upset you’ve suddenly become. You huff a few times, rubbing back the tears pricking your eyes. “You’re gonna’ ask to be with me, but you’re not even gonna’ try to tell me first? I thought that’s what you were waiting for…”

“Hold on, what? Wait a minute-”

“Oh, come  _on_!” You stomp your foot, a juvenile and unexpected expression of discontent. “That you’re the Red Hood. You haven’t made a real move on me because you were waiting until you told me that you were the Red Hood, right?”

His voice sounds very small: “…uh?” 

“Oh, my God.” It’s your turn to shake your head. “Seriously? If it wasn’t that then what was it?”

Honesty is the only thing Jason has left at the moment, and so he’s honest. “I’ve never dated anyone before, and I had no idea how to ask? Also,” he squints at you. “Vigilantism. Yeah. But mostly I just had no clue what I was doing. Clearly.” He motions between the two of you as though displaying a piece of evidence. 

Your face burns so hot you’re sure it’s pinker than your PJs. “Oh,” you coo, brushing some hair behind your ears and looking at your feet. “That’s my bad then. I probably should have just asked you.” 

“Yeah!” Jason points, playful accusation bold in his tone. “Yes, you should have asked me to be your boyfriend. Do you know how many weeks I’ve spent trying to think of the right things to say to you? The things I’d say if you said ‘yes,’ and I’d have to tell you about Red Hood?”

“Oh!” You’re back to being loud, sheepish demeanor entirely vanished. “Oh, so you weren’t going to tell me  _at all_  unless we were already dating?” 

“Those are the rules!”

“Whose rules?”

Jason scoffs. “Don’t ask.”  

The two of you migrate closer together throughout the discussion. Before you know it, you’re close enough to prod his side as you fire off another response.  “I already asked!” 

A chuckle escapes him in a giddy puff. You know where he’s ticklish, and you are not sorry. You jab a few more times, and he lets you. Only when an actual trill of dumb laughter threatens to leap up his throat does Jason put a stop to your paltry revenge. He snatches you up in his arms and stares down at your loosely restrained person. 

“So, we’re dating now?” He sounds hoarse and unsure. Not smooth. Not sexy. Not any of the things he was supposed to be. 

You purse your lips. “I mean,  _yeah_. But really though, you weren’t going to tell me?” 

He shrugs, ornery and so happy he could burst.

“Jerk!” you giggle, wriggling to wrap your arms around him too.


End file.
